


Dragonrider

by Shadaras



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Temeraire Fusion, Gen, what even am I doing with this I don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical fantasy TFA AU where the First Order are templars, spaceships are dragons, the Force is magic, and things don't quite go the same way as in the movie.</p><p>Multiple POVs, Rey-focused, updated sporadically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For all that this is sorta a Temeraire fusion (and I'm tagging it that way!) it's more Temeraire-inspired than keeping to precisely Temeraire's universe.

It isn’t considered a Good Idea to go off on a secret mission without a crew, Poe reflects. He tugs on the straps covering his arms and legs, but they’re strong, dragonweight bonds. It’s an even _worse_ idea to just tell your dragon to go off while you distract the enemy. The First Order might forget about dragonriders sometimes, but they aren’t _stupid_.

“But hey,” he says aloud, staring up at the obnoxiously pristine ceiling of his cell. “It worked.”

For whatever level of “worked” encompassed him being alone, strapped to a table, and beaten bloody, anyway. Which wasn’t a very good level, except for that he was alive, and Bibiate had flown up into the clouds and lost themself in the gray shadows before the First Order riders could catch them. They’d survive. They were good at that, even if they and Poe both hated when missions meant they had to be separated. Even though Bibiate _did_ have a better chance of getting information back to the Resistance than Poe did, at this point.

So Poe waits. He’s gotten used to that, on long rides through the sky; he and Bibiate are close enough, and Bibiate small enough, that they can get away with not having a support crew. Up in the clouds, on long journeys, there’s only each other to talk to, and only if Poe’s willing to shout through the wind and Bibiate willing to articulate clearly enough that their words are comprehensible through the flap of wings and the rush of air surrounding them. It happens, sometimes. It doesn’t happen, far more often.

That Asshole might come back, he supposes. That would at least mean a break in the monotony of staring at the ceiling. He’s traced the patterns of the wood with his eyes, over and over again, just for something to do. He’s bound so that he can’t really turn his head, or else he’d have switched to a wall by now.

He’s contemplating if he’s thankful they haven’t fed him or annoyed, when the door squeaks open, and then closes with a gentle click. Poe lifts his head -- he can still do that, sort of -- so that he can peer down the length of his body and see who’s come in.

It’s a trooper, wearing the terrifyingly pristine white uniform of First Order military service. The amount of work it must take them to keep them that clean, especially on campaign, just offends Poe; if the Resistance had that many work-hours available to them, they’d be feeling less doomed. The trooper removes their mask (standard issue, and nobody Poe’s asked had been able to give him a good reason for _why_ ; it’s not even a proper helmet, just a tight-fitting cloth with a smooth blank face on the front) and moves next to Poe.

“You’re the dragonrider, yeah?” he says in a rushed whisper. “Do exactly as I say, and I can get you out of here.”

Poe blinked up at him. “What?”

“I’m rescuing you! You can fly with other dragons too, right?”

“Are--” and Poe can barely believe he’s saying this “--are you with the Resistance?”

The trooper pauses, mouth open, eyes wide, and then says, “I want to leave the First Order. Can you fly with other dragons?”

“I can fly with anyone, yeah, but--”

“Great!” The trooper starts undoing the straps on his legs. “That’s what we need.”

“But--” Poe stares at the trooper, and then says, instead, “Why are you helping me?”

“It’s the right thing to do.” A shrug, and quick, black-gloved hands move on to the straps over his chest. They’re more delicate than Poe would’ve guessed, and warm even though his shirt. “You can still walk, right?”

“I’m fine.”

The trooper nods, and undoes the straps on his arms. “Good. Otherwise this wouldn’t work.”

“What _is_ this, exactly?” Poe sits up and rubs his arms; even through his jacket, those bonds had been tight. “You have a plan, right?”

“Yeah.” They grin. “Prisoner transfers happen all the time, trust me.”

Poe eyes the trooper. Trust them. White mask, black gloves, a lovely smile and good hands. Someone who’s young and almost certainly just grown up with the First Order. How the hell does he trust someone like that? But he nods, and stands up, and his legs are only a little tight from being stuck in one position for hours. “Right. What do I need to do?”

The trooper pulls their mask back on, and says, voice echoing and raising Poe’s hackles, “Act like you’re more beaten than you are. Follow my lead.”

He takes a deep breath, and then nods. Nothing else for it, now. If it’s a real prisoner transfer, then so be it; they’d need to do that to him eventually anyway. Even if it’s not the Resistance (and they’d said they wouldn’t come for him, they’d said that they’d sacrifice him for this if need be, they’d said-- and he’d gotten captured and _damn_ if he wasn’t going to take this chance as it was offered to him), even if it might be a trick -- get him close enough to a moderately sympathetic dragon and he might be able to get out anyway.

So he says, “You’ll need to be grabbing me.”

The trooper says, “Yeah,” and Poe can’t tell what the tone there is, behind the damned echoing mask. That might be enough reason to have it. Unsettle everyone who talks to your troops, and they’ll have a harder time resisting, or something.

Poe steps away from the table, and arches an eyebrow. “Let’s get this over with.”

A nod is all the warning he gets before the trooper grabs his left arm and twists it up behind him. Poe staggers, and it’s not at all feigned; First Order training is _good_. He had only barely seen the trooper move before his arm got locked up. “March,” the trooper orders, and Poe wonders if he heard a bit of a waver in their voice, or if that was just an artifact of the mask.

But he marches, and they go through the semi-permanent base the First Order’s apparently set up. He knows they’re somewhere in the vicinity of Alexandria; he hadn’t passed out on the flight here, and for all the little encampments and villages in the area, there’s no other city. Something this big had to be near a city, or else there was no way to get enough supplies in for a base as established as this.

He can hear and smell the dragons before he can see them. Dragons, no matter the breed, have a lovely musk; sulfur and leather and something distinctly _dragon_ that he thinks is akin to the way clouds smell. Most people don’t like the scent -- but then, most people aren’t dragonriders. It’s hard for him to keep himself hunched over and stumbling as they get closer, and the trooper mutters, “Stay calm.”

“I _am_ ,” Poe hisses back, even if it’s an outright lie; he’s not calm, he’s excited. He should be terrified, he knows. Dragons don’t always take kindly to being ridden by people who aren’t theirs. Bibiate doesn’t fly for anyone else, for instance, and Artoo fell into depression when his rider went out searching for whatever without him. It’s a matter of hope that a First Order dragon will let them ride instead of just calling for their capture.

The trooper says, more loudly, “I was talking to myself,” and Poe can finally hear the real shake in their voice,.

So Poe takes a deep breath and looks up as they round the corner into the vast open space where the dragons live.

The closest ones are their best bet, he knows after barely a glance. They’re the smallest ones. The courtiers and scouts, just like he and Bibiate are, even if they can also fly in combat. These are different breeds than the ones the Resistance flies, but that shouldn’t make too much of a difference; dragons all speak the same tongue, no matter the breed. The blacks with red markings lounging mostly-asleep to the left catch his eye, and he says, very quietly, “Those. Widowmakers, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Best bet. Small and light and they don’t like anyone.”

“That’s _good_?” the trooper hisses, and Poe winces as their grip -- probably unintentionally -- tightens on his arm.

“Right now? Yes.” Poe eyes troopers walking towards them. They’ve got their hands loosely resting on their swords, and small crossbows dangling at their sides. Probably patrolling. One of them has black striping on their shoulder; definitely higher ranked than Poe’s so-called rescuer. Who probably has a name, but hasn’t volunteered it, and Poe doesn’t want to ask right now. Instead, he drops his gaze and lets his face go slack.

He’s marched towards the Widowmakers, and he can hear the footsteps of the other troopers, soft as they are on the sandy ground. They’ve only got one shot at this. His rescuer has a sword, but that’s not going to be enough against two troopers, not really.

“Where are you taking that prisoner?” Hard and loud. That trooper wasn’t messing around.

“Transfer. General’s orders.”

“You have clearance?”

“Yes, sir.”

Poe keeps his breathing steady with effort.

“Go check with command.” Same voice. Must be the ranking one.

“Yes, sir,” the other one says, more quietly.

Footsteps retreat. Poe feels the tension in his bound-up arm lessen. He takes a breath, long and slow, and shifts his weight so that he won’t fall on his face if this all goes balls-up.

There’s a tapping on his arm, and Poe wiggles his fingers in response. He has no idea what meaning the trooper is trying to convey, but he’s pretty sure nobody else is around, and if they’re fast enough they should be able to take just this one.

Should, being the key word.

It’s another painstakingly stretched breath later when he gets shoved forward into the trooper, and he barely keeps his balance enough to grab the crossbow away from the trooper before tumbling to the ground. Which, a moment later, he counts himself lucky for, as the two troopers both have swords drawn, and the rasp of metal fills the air.

Poe shoves himself to his feet, glances at the _unloaded_ crossbow, and then starts running for the Widowmakers. He can’t help this fight. His rescuer will catch up, though. He hopes.

Someone’s chasing him, and there’s a muffled cry, and then he hears, “Which one?” and grins.

“The one looking at us,” he calls back, stretching his legs and letting glee and adrenaline charge his body. His rescuer was still here. They could do this. “They’re awake and still have some tack.”

The Widowmaker is indeed staring at them, dark eyes reflecting sunlight and dusty scales shifting as the dragon stands. They’re smaller than Bibiate, Poe realises as he draws near. They should still be able to carry two riders, though, and that’s all that they need. Even if they aren’t dressed right. Even if there isn’t enough tack. If the Widowmaker decides that it’s worth it... “It’s gonna work,” he tells himself, quietly so that the wind hides his words from the trooper behind him.

He skids to a stop in front of the Widowmaker and bows. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not your usual rider, and this is a little unusual,” he says, polite and meeting the dragon’s eyes. “I’d love to take you flying, though, if you wouldn’t mind carrying me and my friend here.” He gestures at the trooper, who’s stopped beside him.

The Widowmaker darts their head around, nostrils flaring open in a brimstone sniff. “You have killed.”

“They have, yes.” Poe doesn’t look away.

The dragon’s wings spread slightly. “Where would you have me fly?”

“Alexandria.”

“A beautiful city,” the dragon says, and they crouch.

His heart hammers in his chest, and Poe half jumps, half climbs, onto the Widowmaker before they can change their mind. “Come on!” he calls down to the trooper, and offers his hand.

The trooper takes it, and Poe pulls them up behind him.

The First Order base is beginning to seethe, and Poe grips the Widowmaker’s tack tightly, shoving his legs into the straps, and he shouts, “Let’s fly!”

The Widowmaker jumps, wings flaring open to show glorious, individual, patterns, and the trooper behind him yells, and Poe’s laughing as the wind rushes by his face. He’s flying again, and even if it’s the last time he does, at least he’ll die as he lived:

Free, in the sky, with a dragon’s muscles strong beneath him.


	2. Chapter 2

The old grey dragon Finn points at is practically always sleeping, and Rey dismisses her with a shake of her head, heading towards the not-quite-so-elderly Sandwyrm rousing to the sound of screaming Thunderheads instead.

Of course, then the Thunderheads spits acid at the Sandwyrm, and she cries out in agony, and Rey curses and pulls Finn back around to the old grey.

“She’ll do,” Rey shouts, barely paying attention to Finn. The old gray has been there forever, mourning a lost captain. The only reason she’s still alive is because she’s too canny to be caught sleeping when danger’s about. Nobody even knows her name, let alone her lost captain’s.

Any shot’s better than no shot, though, and they don’t have anything to lose.

Bibiate’s bounding along beside them, their body undulating. They’re still too dehydrated to carry either Rey or Finn any distance; the gray’s going to need to carry them, too. She’s big enough for it, though, and one star-bright eye is opening already, alert to the scent of acid and metal and the sound of flapping wings as the Thunderheads circle around again.

“Please,” Rey shouts, sliding to her knees in front of the great old dragon’s face. “We’ve got to get out of here. Bibiate -- they’ve got information they need to get to the Resistance.”

Her nostrils twitch, and her other eye opens. She’s looking straight at Rey now, and Rey can hear Finn murmuring something almost like a prayer behind her. The dragon lets out a huff of warm air and rumbles, “Chains.”

Rey gestures to Finn and Bibiate. She doesn’t dare break eye contact with the dragon now. “We’re going to get you free. Will you help us?”

The rattle of chains and Finn’s litany of curses is interspersed with Bibiate’s fluting commentary that Rey’s pretty sure Finn can’t understand. But it’s very clear when they get the chains off; the gray’s wings stretched, creaking and popping, and her eyes close with a thrum of pleasure. When her star-shot eyes open again, she murmurs, “Where to?”

“Bibiate?” Rey turns to the orange-and-white dragon, who trills something Rey can’t follow. It’s a name, but not one she’s heard before.

The grey opens her mouth, and then Finn shouts, “Doesn’t matter right now, let’s _move_!”

Rey looks up and the grey does the same. The Thunderheads are almost back.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” the grey says, and before Rey has time to ask _What?_ , the grey’s standing, and she’s bigger than Rey had realised; nobody had ever exactly figured out her breed but Rey’d thought she was like the Thunderheads, just old. Now, as the grey spreads her wings and rears up, Rey can see how wrong she was.

Thunderheads are silvery-pale on their undersides and storm-gray on the top, with streaks of white marking their scars or stretchmarks. Their eyes are pale gold and blue, and they’re lean and long. The gray is just massive, even out of shape and underfed. She’s the colour of old steel, and her wings are banded a darker gray the colour of iron, as are her legs and tail. Her belly’s a little brighter, but not much, and she’s muscled and has wings meant for distance, endurance, stamina.

All of this goes through Rey’s mind in the second it takes for the gray to grab Rey and Finn in her hands and jump, wings sweeping down and scattering sand everywhere. Rey pulls her mask back on and clings to the gray, hoping that Finn’s got the same idea. She can hear Bibiate, so the little dragon’s following.

Rey just prays that the grey knows what she’s doing.

*

Fifteen nauseating maneuvers, three instances of near-death terror, and one plunge into the ocean later, the grey’s lost the Thunderheads, and she deposits them on a beach. Or something that Rey is very willing to call a beach, because it’s near the water and it’s dry and she can hear the pounding waves. Finn’s retching in a bush somewhere nearby, and Bibiate is curled up on the warm stones.

Rey’s just happy to be breathing. She’s also still got her staff, which she wasn’t expecting to keep once the grey took off. That’s something.

A while later, when Finn’s back and Bibiate is starting to stir, the grey returns with clawfuls of giant fish. She tosses one to Bibiate, who gobbles it down, and shoves another towards Rey with a guttural, “It’s safe.”

Rey takes the offering and sets about skinning it ruthlessly. She wants a fire, but that’s too much of a risk with the First Order out who-knows-where looking for them. Not that she knows where they are, even.

“There should be sticks over there.” The grey points with her tail.

Rey waves a hand at Finn, who makes a disgusted noise at both of them, but trots over to the pile of rocks in question. He comes back with an armful of branches, all perfectly dry, and squats down next to Rey. He’s looking at the sticks, putting them into a careful fire that Rey knows will burn clean, when he finally says, “How did you know that?”

“We came here before.”

“You and your captain?” Rey asks. If she’s got fire, then she’s not going to finish skinning it; easier once it’s cooked. She sits back on her heels and looks at the grey, who’s nodding. “What’s-- Oh, right, I never introduced us. I’m Rey, and this is Finn.”

“Millennium,” the grey says. Then she smiles. It involves a lot of teeth, and some fish guts. “Or Millie, for short.”

“Millie,” Rey repeats. “What was--”

She stops herself because the grey’s sitting up, turning to the ocean with an alertness that’s nothing like Rey’s seen before. “Wait here,” Millie says, and takes off in what’s thankfully just a spray of water and not fish slime or even really sand.

“Wait here,” Finn mutters, laying the last sticks. “Right, like we have a choice.”

“Do you think she saw something?”

“Probably.”

They share a glance, and Finn pockets the flint and steel. Bibiate’s sitting up, their head turned towards the ocean in the direction Millie went, but if they see anything, they aren’t saying anything.

Rey fidgets. There’s not really anywhere to hide, and the salt drying on her skin from their plunge into the ocean is drying and itching. She starts scraping it off, just to have something to do. Millie’s still not back when she finishes, and the sun’s clearly moved, still bright-burning in in the blueness of the sky.

Finn’s leaning against the rock Bibiate’s sitting on, in the shade they provide. Rey frowns at him. He’s dehydrated, clearly, but if Millie’s coming back, they shouldn’t stray from this rocky landing. There’s no scent of fresh water on the wind, either, just salt and fish guts. She’d need to go searching, and that would mean leaving Finn and Bibiate, and being in the middle of somewhere but entirely on her own without a bearing.

Despite all the downsides, Rey’s almost ready to go exploring when Millie returns, her blunt-winged silhouette startling for a moment before Bibiate’s gleeful trill identifies her for Rey and Finn. They’d frozen, eyes locked, and Rey has just opened her mouth to suggest running when Bibiate spreads their own wings in greeting.

Millie drops to the ground in a rush of sea-spray and crouches. The first thing Rey notices is that she has a harness now. The second, that there are two people riding her.

They both drop from Millie’s side with the ease of long practice, and despite their silvering hair, they still move smoothly. One of them, the smaller one with a vest and a pretty hand crossbow, comes up to Millie’s head and, resting a hand just above her half-closed eye, says, “You the ones who freed her?”

Rey nods cautiously, her hands still set on her staff.

“Glad to see her back. She’s been gone a-- a long time.”

The other, tall and hairy and wearing a fur cloak that has to be overwarm in the sun, says... something. Some of the words sound familiar, but the rest are guttural and too fast for Rey to follow.

Millie huffs. “Rey, Finn, Bibiate, meet my captain, Han Solo, and his best mate, Chewbacca.”

“ _The_ Han Solo?” Finn blurts out. “The war hero?”

“The smuggler,” Rey whispers, looking around the landing in a new light.

Han scowls. “Maybe.”

“Then--” Rey straightens, and loosens her grip on her staff. “Bibiate has information we need to get to the resistance. Can you help us?”

From his utter lack of surprise, Rey guesses that Millie had told him about their quest already. From his expression, he didn’t particularly like the idea. 

Chewbacca says something else, and this time Rey almost follows it. Something about them looking like good children? A reminder about--

Rey looks over at Finn and Bibiate. “Didn’t you say something about Luke Skywalker, earlier?”

Han stiffens. “I haven’t heard that name in... a long time.”

“Yeah,” Finn says. “Bibiate knows a path to Luke Skywalker.”

Bibiate nods.

Millie and Chewbacca both turn to Han. Their gazes are surprisingly similar, for all that one is a rather giant person and the other is a dragon. Both are expectant, and Han’s grimace is directed at both of them. “I stopped fighting that war.”

“A long time ago, yes.” Millie sighs, and nudges Han with her head. “That doesn’t mean the war’s ended.”

Han crosses his arms and turns to Chewbacca. “As for _you_ \--” He starts into that almost-familiar language, and Chewbacca joins in, their voices loud and overlapping until Rey can’t follow them at all.

Millie blinks slowly. “Start the fire,” she advises. “Eat. They’ll keep.”

Rey nods, and grabs Finn’s arm, dragging him to the unlit fire. They get it started, and Rey spears fish and starts roasting them, the scent making her mouth want to water.

About the time the fish finishes, Han stalks over to them. Rey’s got her mouth full when he says, “We’ll take you to Maz’s place, Takodana.”

Rey blinks at him. The name’s unfamiliar to her, and clearly to Finn too, from his blank stare.

“She can get you to the Resistance.” Han nods decisively. “That’s settled, then.”

Rey swallows her mouthful of fish. “I thought Luke Skywalker was a myth.”

Han’s face shifts, becomes unreadable. “He’s not. He-- was a lucky youth, and had a fancy sword, and the legends grew from there.”

“What about the Force?” Finn asks, the question Rey didn’t quite want to. “That’s not all made up.”

“No.” Han turns from them, walks back over to Millie. “That isn’t. There’s always truth in the legends, even if they’re embellished.”

“Then what’s the real story?”

Han pulls something down from Millie’s harness -- a waterskin, it looks like -- and doesn’t answer.

“Look,” Finn presses, “if we’re going to help find Luke Skywalker, we should know what we’re getting into.”

Chewbacca growls something, and Millie nods. Han leans against her side, running his free hand through his hair. Then, his voice a tight not-quite-monotone, he says, “Luke Skywalker was a farmer. He found a message, gave it to Old Man Ben of the desert, and ran away into adventure. He ran into a smuggler and convinced him to save a princess. The princess saved them back, and then a lot of stuff started blowing up, and the Force helped it happen. Time passes. The war happens. Luke and Artoo become the best lightweight pair in the Alliance. Eventually the Alliance triumphs and becomes the Republic. And then, a while later, they go off in search of who-knows-what, going to who-knows-where, and the First Order comes.”

Rey and Finn are quiet, as Han turns and stalks back to them. He thrusts the waterskin at them. “Happy?”

“Thank you,” Rey says, as much for the water as the story.

He grunts. “Thank Millie.”

Rey smiles at him. “Her too.”

Han makes a disgusted noise and turns back to his dragon. “We’re leaving at dusk. Be ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

Takodana is the name of both an island and the overgrown town plopped on top of it, Rey learns as Millie flies them across the sea. Han’s usual answer to questions were huffs of “Wait until we’re there, kid”, but if Rey and Finn both waited patiently and silently and long enough, he’d eventually tell them something interesting, even if it was often sideways and as a response to whatever Chewbacca was saying.

So as Millie soared over the dark and seemingly-still sea, Han eventually told them that Maz Kanata was older than anyone else Han had ever heard of, was tiny and brilliant and could see into your soul (Rey wasn’t sure how much of an exaggeration that was), was definitely some kind of magic-user (even if Han didn’t like believing in magic), and that she would probably help them — for a price.

Not that he had any idea what that price _was_ , because “That’s the way of being a pirate, kids.”

Rey and Finn shared a look of resignation at that.

Her first sight of Takodana was a glow on the horizon. Chewbacca growled something almost understandable as “That’s it”, and Han replied with a gruff, “Yeah, I know. Almost there, kids.”

As they approached, the glow resolved into a wash of lights, tiny and large and flickering all across the stony island. When Millie slowly circled down to a plaza near the docks, Rey could see that there was something very temple-like at the top of the island, and that everything else tumbled down from there. The docks were crowded with ships of all sizes, from tiny fishing boats to one magnificent and over-decorated cog, with less ostentatious cogs and galleys of various sizes and styles making up the majority of the boats.

A few dragons lay around the edges of the docks and the plaza that was clearly designed as a landing area. Most slept, but some still watched, or were roused by Millie’s approach. The big gray dragon landed gently in the middle of the open space, and Bibiate made a less elegant landing, accompanying it with a wheezing trill. The tired little orange-and-white dragon curled up against Millie while the humans unstrapped themselves from her harness and climbed down.

Takodana smelt like the ocean, salt and rotting fish, nothing like the dry scent of sand and metal that Rey was accustomed to. Nobody else seemed to notice, though, and Rey didn’t say anything, though she wrinkled her nose. “Chewie, stay with Millie,” Han said. “Get a feel for who’s around and what the folk not at Maz’s place are doing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chewbacca said, his words close enough that even Finn noticed and understood them.

“This way, kids.” Han set off up the island’s stairs at an easy stroll, thumbs thrust through his belt like he hadn’t a care in the world. As he set off, Bibiate roused with a trill and leapt after them, trotting along just behind Rey and Finn.

They followed him up through the winding passages, where greenery sprouted out of almost every crack and grew upwards towards the sky. Rey felt a kinship with those plants, finding shelter and sustenance where they could. Finally, as they reached the temple covered with flags and lit by a hundred torches or more, Han said, “Don’t stare.”

“At what?” Finn asked.

“Any of it.”

Then he pushed the grand wooden doors open, and they walked into a riot of colour and smells and people of all shapes and sizes and colours. There were even small dragons inside, some hanging on gargoyle carvings high on the wall, some lounging on cushions, some being used as couches or seats by the humans in the room. Smoke collected in the high ceiling, but the scent of the haze overpowered the sea air, overlaying it with more familiar smells of woodsmoke and cooking meat and even the sharpness of alcohol.

Far across the room, someone shouted, voice loud and old, “ _Han Solo!_ ”

Everyone froze for a moment, and Han sighed. “Hi, Maz,” he said. He even waved a little.

The room relaxed, and a small figure came striding up to them. This, Rey realised, must be Maz. Her skin was dark, and she wore loose layers of cloth wrapped around her, so that it took Rey a moment to realise that she was wearing flowing trousers and not a dress or robe as Rey had expected. She wore a headcloth, and glass lenses framed her eyes, making them seem giant in her fine-boned face.

“Where’s Chewbacca?” she demanded.

“With Millie. Checking out the crews.”

Maz nodded imperiously. “He must come by when he’s done. I miss him.”

“Yeah, well.” Han gestured at Rey and Finn. “We came here to ask a favour.”

She snorted. “Of course you did. Well, follow me.”

She strode away, and they followed, pulled along in her wake. Rey kept looking around, wide-eyed, at the crowd of people. She didn’t even recognise half the languages being spoken, let alone all the cultures represented here. Bibiate slunk along behind them, just barely small enough to comfortably fit inside.

Maz sat them down at a table and shoved food in front of them with a muttered, “If you’re looking for help, I doubt you’ve eaten enough lately.”

Rey gave her a guilty smile and then started eating, not paying much attention as Han told her of their goal. When the table had been silent for a good half-minute, she looked up, and Maz was frowning at them. At Finn.

“When you live long enough,” Maz said, “you learn to see the same eyes in different people. Come here, boy.”

Finn didn’t move.

Maz huffed, and then climbed on the table and crawled over, eyes giant and dark behind the lenses covering her face. She peered at Finn, who leaned back even as she came closer. Rey kept a hand on her staff, even as she kept steadily eating the wonderful food Maz had offered them freely. When Maz at last sat back, she said, very gently, “You can’t run forever, child.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Maz’s calm voice cut through Finn’s words. “If you wish to run, ask them.” She pointed at a pair of older people quietly eating in a corner. “They need more crew, and they are fair. Work is repaid with passage and food, and no harm will come to you, though you may hurt as you learn the rower’s trade.”

Finn nodded stiffly and stood. “Thank you for your help.”

“Finn, wait!” Rey stuffed the roll in her hand into a belt pouch and followed after him as he walked towards them. “Don’t go with them! We have a mission!”

“I’m a liar, Rey,” he said, so quietly she could barely hear him. But he did stop, and he turned to face her. “I’m not Resistance. I escaped from the First Order. They’re going to find us, and they’re going to kill us, and if I need to sail to the Northlands to escape, then I will, and I’ll _still_ worry that they’ll find me someday.”

“Finn...”

“Please, Rey.” He gripped her hand tight, and looked into her eyes. His own shone in the torchlight, and she couldn’t tell how much they glinted from the torches and how much from tears. “Come with me.”

“I—” She swallowed. “I can’t. I need to help Bibiate.”

He released her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Rey whispered, as Finn turned and walked off and started talking to the shipmasters Maz had pointed out.

The crowd had swallowed her, though, and turned her around. She couldn’t let them see how much Finn’s choice bothered her. She had to be— somewhere else, anywhere else. She moved towards a wall, and found a door. It was unlocked, and opened at the touch of her hand. Down the stairs it revealed was cooler and quieter, both things Rey wanted just then. She stepped through, and Bibiate followed, keening softly.

Downstairs was lit by a single lantern hung in the middle of a hall. Multiple doors lined a wall, all closed but one, which was ajar. Rey moved towards it, almost forgetting her sorrow in her curiosity. Dust rose with every step she took, and as she neared she saw that the room was lit from within by an almost blue light. She pushed the door open, and inside was—

Well, a lot of old stuff. Most of it boxes, none of it anything that she recognised as intrinsically interesting. The room wasn’t even glowing, the way that she had thought from the outside. She wandered among the boxes, trailing her fingers through the dust. One of the boxes almost seemed to hum as she touched it, and she paused there. It was small, not much longer than her forearm and only half as deep and wide. The outside was simple wood, stained dark and inlaid with carvings only along the latch and around the edges. They seemed to have meaning, but Rey couldn’t make out any words, or even any complete scenes through all the dust.

It was unlocked, though. She raised the lid. Inside lay the hilt to a sword, made of perfect gleaming steel untouched by rust. The grip was wrapped and braided black leather, unrotted and gleaming as if it had just been oiled. Two sapphires were built into it as well, one large perfectly faceted one that looked like it had been somehow forged into the pommel, so that it shone—almost literally—from within. The other, smaller, glinted through the crossguard, and Rey didn’t even realise it was only one gem until she picked up the hilt and looked at where the blade should be. The sapphire, blue as dusk, ran all along the opening.

She frowned, and almost turned to set it down, when—

_A sandstorm ripping across her face, a black-wrapped figure with a glowing red sword, high-arched halls that felt familiar though she’d seen no such thing before, a rainstorm with that red-sword figure again, her own face and voice screaming for her parents, a cloaked figure whispering to a blue-and-white dragon. A voice, unknown, familiar, saying, “These are your first steps, Rey.”_

Then the world righted itself, and Rey dropped the hilt—the artefact—back into its box and staggered out of the room.

Maz was in the hall outside, along with Bibiate. She turned to Rey, and said, “It came to me many years ago. I have been waiting for the right person to find it.”

“I don’t want anything to do with that!”

“Child—”

Rey hissed, “Stop calling me that!”

Max removed her lenses, and her eyes were so much smaller than Rey had thought. She peered up at Rey, smiling gently. “The belonging you seek is not behind you, but ahead.”

“I don’t seek belonging,” Rey said through gritted teeth.

“Everyone does. And, Rey?”

Reluctantly, Rey looked down at her. Her voice held undeniable power, even gentle.

“When it comes time—and you will know when it does—remember this: The Force flows through all of us. All you need to do is _listen_.”

Rey nodded, and strode past Maz. “Thank you.”

Too many people. Too many mysteries. Time to go find somewhere _quiet_ , without people, where it was just—not the desert, not here, but maybe just her and the sea and Bibiate. That should be possible, even on this island that was a town.

Even if she could feel, as she left, Maz watching her still.


End file.
